A Constellation Over Naboo
by F.J. Stellar
Summary: Vader, assigned to Naboo to flush out Rebel cells, has his mission complicated by a young Leia Organa and the remnants of the Trade Federation who want her dead. Flashback appearances of Padmé.
1. The Daughter that Lived

Hey,

The following is an AU father/daughter story set ten years after the events of RotS. Both Vader and Leia feel the absence of Padmé profoundly and through this common ache they ultimately forge a bond against the backdrop of a second invasion of Naboo. At the beginning of the story neither is aware of the biological relationship. Moreover, Leia believes herself to be the natural child of Bail and Breha Organa. Padmé's presence is felt through Vader's memories and Leia's dreams.

Feedback is appreciated and welcomed. : )

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**A CONSTELLATION OVER NABOO**

_By: Jay Stellar

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_

**Chapter One**

**The Daughter that Lived**

From this high, orbital view Amidala's world is oblivious to the maelstrom that is the spinning galaxy. Nature cycles on Naboo as it always has. Cirrus spike high in the atmosphere above Theed, trailing after the prevailing winds. Amountainous spine throws shadows across the green, summer plains of the northern continent. As the distant surface below rolls past the telescopic lenses of the F-class Sentry Satellite—the subsequent feed projecting upon the great, panoramic viewscreen of Palpatine's throne room—Vader wonders at what resolution are the changes visible? How many times must the image be magnified to spot the scar her death left upon the planet?

There should be a crater, he thinks: evidence that some vital piece of this verdant world is missing. An irrational anger stirs as he watches the planet rotate unscathed. The steppes should have turned dun. The oceans should have broiled away. The whole of Naboo should have collapsed inward onto the cavity, onto the core where her spirit once dwelled with all the other goddesses of its Parthenon.

And yet looking at Naboo it is almost as if she still exists in this part of the galaxy. It is almost if she waits at the familiar lakeside; as if she would turn and smile sadly at his cautious, reverent approach through the bulrushes. It is sunset and she is alive and he is whole…

Vader startles and forces himself out of the reverie. He looks to the Emperor who watches the satellite footage impassively—unmoved.

It is his Master's homeworld also, but of the associations Naboo evokes, Palpatine is among the last. It is puzzling that these two opposite entities should be cognitively linked. How had the planet that had bore Amidala also fostered the wasted, twisted form slumped languidly on the throne? Had the world shuddered at his birth, wobbled on its axis, sending itself and the rest of the galaxy on a new trajectory through spacetime towards the era of the Empire?

The video feed pauses. The date and time flashing at the bottom of the screen indicate that the footage is a week old. The General speaking—the General Vader has been ignoring—gestures to a grainy blip across the screen. The image zooms in, focusing on a blurred, shadowed freighter.

"The serial codes transmitted by this transport here are identical to codes we recorded on three separate occasions of Rebel activity last year. Therefore, this ship has been red-flagged on our registry. Sentry satellites immediately alerted Theed to the incoming enemy vessel—"

"Suspected enemy vessel," interjects Naboo's Ambassador.

The General and the Ambassador toss each other filthy looks. Dwarfed by the immense viewscreen, they are regarded by Palpatine and Vader from atop the superior throne dais. This palace chamber is all severe lines and angles; even the shadows are jagged and geometric. Support pillars rise to unseen heights; the arguments of the General and Ambassador reverberate in the cavernous space above. There is a window—a great hexagonal affaire—spider-webbed by buttresses, facing out over the metropolis indigo of night-time Coruscant.

"The point is that Naboo took no action to so much as investigate the incoming ship. Protocol stipulates the local government are to escort red-flagged vessels to a detention hanger for extensive inspection. Instead, your fleet sat still and allowed potential Rebels uninhibited access to the planet."

A muscle leaps in the Ambassador's jaw. "This merely proves that we lack the resources to patrol every square centimetre of Nubian airspace, not that we are Rebel sympathizers, General. If we were to send escorts to meet every suspicious ship that crossed the Sentry Satellites' orbit, our budget would be drained down to a negative sum."

"Understand that this is not an isolated event, Ambassador. There are six hundred documented examples of Naboo ignoring these alerts in the past eighteen months alone. Six hundred times Rebel ships landed upon your planet! How is it that the Rebels—the greatest threat to galactic peace—fly below your radar?"

For good reason the Ambassador is losing his composure, swallowing thickly. "General, these accusations are grossly exaggerated." He looks pleadingly to the Emperor. "Your Highness, time and time again Queen Rozwir has proved her Imperial allegiance! Surely you do not believe Naboo to be a Rebel haven; Naboo is veritably the home planet of the Empire—your birthplace!"

A poor play: trying to work on Palpatine's sense of Nubian patriotism. Vader knows the Emperor makes no distinction between his native world and the trillion other spinning spheres in the galaxy. Vader glances at his Master, waiting for him to reprimand the Ambassador; to sneer that he is above this poor orator's pathos.

But the Emperor gives no sign that he has even heard the implores. His eyes are fixed instead on the viewscreen. His mouth is just perceptible agape: a gesture so uncharacteristically uncouth that Vader too turns to look. The magnified image of the ship looms paused on the screen. It is a newer make, more advanced that one would expect of a Rebel vessel—yet, even so Vader misses the significance.

"Master?"

"Lord Vader," Palpatine murmurs so lowly that only his Apprentice can hear. "If you were to take an instinctual stab in the dark, whom would you guess to be the ship's manufacturers?"

An elongated hull; a rounded bow and stern. Despite the flowing curvature of the vessel, there is something inherently ugly in its design. Its markings are acrid green.

"Neimoidian."

Palpatine smiles grimly. "Federation, moreover."

"That cannot be so."

The Neimoidians, the native race of the late Nute Gunray and his fellow Separatist cronies, have not built so much as a vacu-droid since the Clone Wars ended. Quarantined on their core world, exterminated from their purse worlds, the Neimoidians are now a severely marginalized race, forced back into a stone age on Palpatine's orders. While the Trade Federation (and its evolved form, the Separatist Army) were once a convenient enemy to rally the Republic against, the Neimoidian aliens have long since out-lived their usefulness. Emperor Palpatine keeps them oppressed, partially out of his crippling xenophobia, and partially because, given the chance and the finances, they would seek out bloody revenge on the Sith Lord who betrayed them.

"Gentlemen." Palpatine's voice rings throughout the chamber. "Leave us."

Again the General and the Ambassador trade looks, though this time of mutual confusion, rather than mutual ill will. They depart wisely without argument.

Palpatine sits reflecting for a moment; Vader stands silent. Slowly the throne revolves and the Emperor rises to stand by the great window. Gazing wearily out at the city that marks the centre of his Empire, Palpatine looks so much more like old man he ought to be than the iron tyrant he is.

"Anything is possible, I suppose," his Master is saying quietly. "Not all the Separatist leaders were accounted for. If the Rebellion can hide from the Empire it is no large leap of imagination to assume the remnants of the Trade Federation can too. The question is whether or not the two organisations have aligned. Alone they are a nuisance, together…together they stir the makings of a formidable foe."

"It would be a dangerous combination of the Rebellion's fanatical idealism and the Separatist's advanced technology, Master."

"A Neimoidian ship was flagged as a Rebel's," Palpatine repeats the distressing fact to himself. "If theses two are in cohorts I must know. Vader, I am sending you to Naboo."

Dread crashes over him. Of all places—_her _planet.

"Master, six hundred Rebel landings in eighteen months is a relatively innocent ratio. Six hundred suspicious ships land on Coruscant hourly. Naboo hardly merits an investigation."

Palpatine regards Vader piercingly. "Naboo is the only lead we have on the Rebel-Separatist connection. You shall follow up on it despite any lingering association you may or may not have with the planet. It has been ten years, Vader."

"I know, Master."

He flashes his Apprentice an odd, rueful smile before turning back to the winking city lights. "Besides, what would dear Amidala think—her beloved planet once again under Neimoidian control, and you, her beloved husband, doing nothing to help?"

The crusier's engines run at fractional levels; the captain has been conserving energy for years.

* * *

The largest of salvaged Separatist ships drifts eerily in the vacuum. The exterior lights have been switched off. Inside, the engineers of the bridge work in semi-darkness. Battle droids clunk down the narrow corridors by the glow of their headlamps only. Even though the _Vigil _is a dark and cold ship; even though it mechanics shudder frequently and ominously; even though the same old, recycled air has rattled through its vents for a decade now—the crew consensually agrees they are better off here than home.

Neimoidia is ruined and enslaved. The riches garnered during the glory Trade Federation days have all been carried away. There is nothing now but this aging fleet, hidden from the Empire by the vastness of space, and the brilliance of their scientists who are the key to any revenge they hope to inflict.

There is also Commander Saul Myire, their leader. He is particularly handsome Neimoidian—which is to say he is particularly hideous by human standards. Tall, spindly-fingered, and mottled grey, Saul Myire claims relation to Nute Gunray, but he is much his kin as any other Neimoidian working on the _Vigil_: these aliens are born as grubs by the millions. However, the fabrication is left to slide, as everyone knows Saul Myrie is ten-fold the leader Nute Gunray ever was. They need him. Desperately.

At this hour Saul Myire paces in the near-empty bridge. His Lieutenant, Pann Golita, sits taciturnity at a darkened computer terminal.

"If the others knew what you were up to, they'd eject you into the vacuum!"

Saul Myire says nothing, the lumpy ridges over his eyes pulling downwards into a frown.

"You are going to ruin everything! Did the mistakes of Gunray teach you nothing?"

"Pann, do shut up," says Saul Myire lazily. He turns his attention to the lingering engineers at the helm. It would be preferable if there was not an audience to witness the coming hologram transmission. "Clear the bridge," he orders, waving them off imperiously. At the whoosh-hiss of the shutting door, Commander and Lieutenant are alone. "We have everything to gain from this alliance, and nothing to lose but perhaps our obscurity."

"Our obscurity is what has kept us protected from the Empire all these years. I'm telling you, she's a spy for Palpatine!"

"If she were an Imperial, she would have traced our Hyperspace coordinates already and sent a star destroyer to blast us to oblivion. But as it seems we are still here, I trust her."

"Perhaps she is just waiting for us to reveal the location of our other ships," argues Pann Golita.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm right and she's merely a Rebel agent looking to secure another member for the Alliance."

Over the past weeks Golita has noticed the Commander's growing arrogance and distance. Golita's influence over Myire shrinks as the woman's grows. Still, he must try to bring Saul Myire to his senses. "We have already given—no, _wasted_ twenty freighters on her."

"And she has sent us food supplies, fuel cells, and metal scraps to replenish our depleted reserves," reasons Myrie wearily.

"I do not trust her." Goltia rises from his chair, red eyes narrowed upon the hologram transmitter.

"No—really?" Myire says as it gives two long, low-pitched beeps. "Now, stay quiet while I take this call." Myire steps into range of the recorder, and in exchange a blue, insubstantial form rises out of the projector's static. The image is a tall woman concealed in simple robes. Of her face, only a grim, wide mouth can be seen; a hood shadows the other features.

To Golita, she is all too reminiscent of the Sith Lord Sidious who had befriended the Trade Federation years ago, when, financially the Neimoidians had reigned supreme. Sidious had been their race's downfall—the Emperor in disguise. It is not just the robes and hood, or the fact she is human—there is something inherently suspicious and familiar about her. Golita knows his anxiety is more than just the usual alien mistrust of humans. He knows any alliance with her will only bring further devastation upon the Neimoidians.

"Matter Superior," greets Saul Myire. It is a codename. Evidently, she trusts them as much as Golita trusts her.

"Commander Myrie," she says. Her voice is low and the audio crackles. "Is phase one complete?"

"Phase one?" hisses Golita.

"I said for you to be quiet!" snarls Myire. Then, turning back to the image of Matter Superior: "It is indeed, my Lady. I have had confirmation from the munitions team. They have landed on Naboo"

"What munitions team?"

"Silence, Pann! Please excuse his rudeness, my Lady. He does not know any better."

"Indeed. Myire, you should take note that the Emperor's scrutiny may soon fall upon our operation. I've learned that the Nubian Ambassador has been called before him regarding the Rebel traffic landing upon the planet."

"But there is nothing to implicate Neimoidian involvement. The serial codes of the ships are Rebel-flagged." This is the first hint of Saul Myire's self-assurance being contested.

Matter Superior inclines her head. "Of course. However, either way, the time is approaching to forge our pact concretely and absolutely. The Rebellion requires Neimoidian overt assistance in a large-scale attack that will cripple the Empire. The attack will take place a month from now, targeting the training base at Bilbringi. We need your warships to spearhead the effort."

Myire's perpetual frown deepens. "I'm not agreeing to a gamble like this before I speak to Commander Organa directly."

Golita breaths a sigh of relief. Perhaps Saul Myire has not lost all his sense.

The static builds over the audio link. Her image falters momentarily. "I'm afraid that is still not possible. Organa has not yet been brought fully into the loop. You must understand: a Neimoidian alliance will not be popular with the human Rebels."

"Nor will a human alliance be popular with the Neimoidians!" interjects Golita, to Myire's unvoiced chagrin: a look is enough.

Matter Superior smiles a small, infuriating smile. "Of course, I will make involvement worth your while. That would only be fair."

"Then what are you offering us?"

As she speaks her low voice builds to a fanatic trill. "I offer vengeance on the woman whose dumb luck spoiled your victory on both Naboo and Geonosis! I offer personal vengeance on the woman who—second to Emperor Palpatine—is responsible for your current position!"

Myire squints sceptically. "Padmé Amidala's dead already."

"Her daughter lives."

The computer terminal Pann Golita had vacated earlier brightens to life. The two Neimoidians turn to stare as the picture of a human child resolves onto the screen. They hate her immediately. She has her mother's dark-eyed, dead-pan stare.

"The resemblance is uncanny," says Matter Superior.

"Human all look about the same to me," grumbles Golita. "Besides, Amidala's child died with her."

Matter Superior is not fazed. "A cover-up to shield the child from the enemies of her parents. Namely, the Emperor."

"Who was the father?" asks Myire.

"A Jedi by the name of Anakin Skywalker, who died during Vader's Great Purge."

Ah, yes—Golita's favourite. As a boy Skywalker had been instrumental in the Federation's defeat, destroying the Droid Control ship orbiting Naboo. A child of both Amidala _and _Skywalker? The girl is placed irrevocably from Golita's forgiveness.

Crossing his arms, Myire tells the hologram, "As weird and wonderful as this revelation may be, I want genetic proof."

"You will have it," Matter Superior ascents mysteriously. "And I shall bring Leia Skywalker before you. Alive, naturally. The pleasure of killing the girl shall be yours personally. But in the mean time…start preparing for the Bilbringi assault."

The transmission is cut abruptly.

The crackling static dissolves and all that is left is the ringing silence of the darkened bridge. Golita turns to Myire.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

* * *

"_This_ is where it all happens," Bail Organahas enthused numerous times during their short trip to Coruscant. This time she believes him.

Leia Organa, his daughter, gaps at the glittering splendour of the Imperial Palace atrium, struggling to take it all in as he leads her through a teeming masses of aristocrats and ranking officers. Art from a thousand worlds embellishes the walls already architecturally ornate. A fountain spurts a kaleidoscope of colours. Even the staircase railings are gold. The Alderanni Princess has never felt so humble; she clings to Bail's hand.

They are attending an Imperial function as part of Leia's schooling in the inner workings of the Empire. She has been here before—or so Bail tells her. Leia remembers none of it; at the time she had been a baby swaddled in his arms, peering over his shoulder at the crowd.

Her father talks pleasantly to an Admiral's wife; waves to a friend from the old days; jokes with the Senator from Kamino. Too intimidated to join in on the conversation, Leia shrinks away like a child half her age.

"You don't say much, do you, young Princess?" says an Ambassador, smiling down at her.

Bail laughs. "At home we can't keep her quiet. However Leia's been positively mute since we arrived on Coruscant. I suppose the grandeur of the Imperial Centre can be daunting."

Her father nudges her; Leia has been starring at a pair of doors at the end of the hall.

"Yes," she agrees evasively.

An older gentleman pinches her cheek lightly and she tries not to stiffen. "Ah—don't let these stuff-shirted peacocks and military clowns frighten you. We're all equally inferior in the eyes of the Emperor!"

Her father's laugh is nervous. "Harsh words when Palpatine resides just in the other room."

Leia looks back again at the double doors: the entrance to the Imperial throne room. So, it is the Emperor's presence that she has felt since arriving on Coruscant. It is a dark, lonesome feeling that makes her stomach twist and churn. It is as if an icy, sharp finger draws terrible shapes across her back. Sometimes she can hardly breathe, the feeling is so awful. Bail has never come out right and said that Palpatine is evil, that the entire Empire is evil—but she knows what radiates coldly out of the throne room now must be it. Coruscant is a miserable world—shiningly and fabulously miserable. The blocks of skyscrapers that stretch the circumference of the globe do not awe her; nor do the lines of speeder traffic that diminish into streaks of light in the distance. She wants to go home.

"Vader's in there too," chuckles the older gentleman. "Must be the wine lending me the bravado. Cheers, Princess. Excuse me, Bail."

Bail bends down to whisper in her ear. "Chin up, Sweetheart. It'll all be over soon."

As father and daughter sidle further into the crowd (closer to the throne room doors—to Leia's horror) an elegant woman calls out to Bail. He greets her with a courtly kiss, but by his tight, wary smile Leia can tell he is not happy to see her. Leia peers at the woman curiously.

"Sabé Reuthering! How long has in been?" he says.

"Too long! And this must be young Leia Organa! When I last saw you, you were only a baby."

Leia grins weakly. "Hello."

"Will you look at that face! What a face! Oh, Bail she is the image of her mother!"

Leia frowns, knowing that she—slight and pale—is hardly the image of her dark, broad mother. Neither does Leia resemble her father. They tell her that she takes after an obscure great aunt on the Antilles side.

"I'm an old friend of your mothers, Princess. From—oh—before you were born," continues the woman, beaming. Sabé's eyes crinkle warmly. Leia likes her immediately.

"Are you from Alderaan, then?" Leia says.

It is Sabé's turn to frown. "No…" she says slowly. "Naboo." The woman looks accusingly at Bail. "Doesn't she know? She doesn't—does she?"

"Know what?"

"Later," snarls Bail through clenched teeth. His face has flushed scarlet. "How dare you…" he says to Sabé in an angry whisper. "Here of all places!"

"Know what?" Leia repeats, tugging at his sleeve. Her hand freezes on his arm. The double doors are sliding open like a predator's maw, revealing the infinite black space within. Out of the gloom steps a figure just as dark, and the pervading chill crashes over her once more. Something instinctual screams to run.

Sabé sees Leia's wide-eyed horror, and looks to regard the figure coolly—seemingly unfazed. The black figureturns his mask onto Sabé, and then, for one terrible moment onto Leia. This is what she has feared the most. The mask's angular, obsidian features gleam horribly in golden light of the atrium. Menace glints from the hollow where its eyes should be. He is a towering, vertical slab of metal and blinking monitor lights. Two, great hands hang threateningly at his side. They are relaxed now, but she imagines—_remembers_ them clenched around a woman's—_Mother's_ neck.

Sabé bends and purrs in Leia's ear, "I wouldn't stare, Princess. It's rather rude."

"Sorry," she whispers, looking to the floor. The darkness is gathering closer still, pushing the walls in just a little tighter and tighter with every beat.

"Have you ever met Lord Vader?"

"Sabé!" Bail says warningly.

But Vader is striding off in the other direction, across the hall. Leia breathes a sigh of relief.

"…He too is an old friend of your mother's." Sabé straightens up, placing a hand on either of the girl's shoulders. She smiles strangely. "A very dear old friend."

* * *


	2. The Chief Petty Officer

Hey,

Last chapter I noticed that there were a few words jumbled together and a line-break a tad out of place. My apologies for the distractions. Here's to hoping that this post is glitch free.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed!

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**Chapter Two**

**The Chief Petty Officer**

Leia stays up long after midnight, long after Bail orders her to bed. Artoo, her droid, observes her pensively, withholding his usual chirps and coos as they linger together outside the conference room. Inside, Bail is taking a few calls. Leia eavesdrops intently, catching frustrating bits and scraps of conversation. Her mother is on the other end of the line.

"Breha, I know…yes…well, we can't very well keep her on Alderaan forever…yes…yes, her…Padmé's old body guard…ah…no, I don't think so…Breha, don't be ridiculous…yes, I know Vader's a Force user. But that hardly makes him omnipresent…yes, we're coming home tomorrow…"

Leia stiffens at the mention of the Dark Lord's name.

The conference room doors are ajar; she can see Bail pace through the sliver space. The Princess's large, grave eyes follow his movements. "Goodnight," Bail tells Breha, cutting the call with a short beep of the communicator.

Abruptly Leia backs away from the door, hurrying quietly up the hall to her room. Artoo rolls off in the opposite direction, whistling innocently.

They are staying in the embassy apartment Bail avails of when the Senate is in session. The corridor walls reflect the diplomatic neutrality of the building—all soft beiges, bland yellows, and off whites. Her room lies at the end of the hall, across from the lift, next to the exotic potted fern.

Leia sinks beneath the covers just as a slice of warm light from the hallway falls upon her bed. Bail stands in the doorway, checking in on her. He does not see her body curl, wrought with tension, beneath the bulky comforter. To feign slumber's blank face she focuses on her toes, curling them rigidly until the joints crack. Leia's furious with him—for a reason she has yet to entirely admit to herself.

It feels like a stranger's hand, not her father's, that smoothes the damp bangs off her sweaty forehead.

At the sounds of his retreating footsteps, she sits up and blinks back hot, angry tears in the darkness. The presence of the Emperor and Vader still weighs down upon her heavily. It is as if the totality of her every dark thought and emotion has risen up from old, buried grievances so that absolute misery shall be her constant companion. She wishes she could explain it to Bail, but knows he would never understand.

Neither will her mother, but there is comfort to be gleaned from Breha's voice never-the-less. Leia creeps to the bureau to retrieve the long-range communicator she has hidden amongst her blouses and socks. Sitting back on the bed she extends the antennae and dials, clutching the boxy device to her ear. Only she, Bail, and a few close friends of the Organa family have this number.

"Hello?"

"Mom."

"Leia? Goodness—what are you doing up? I was just speaking with your father; he said you'd gone to bed."

"I was, but…Mom, I miss you. This place…it feels wrong." Leia glances out the window. She can see the tall, skeletal spire of the Imperial Palace in the distance. The wreathing smog glows an unnatural colour from the emerald lights. It is wickedness embodied.

"You'll be home soon, honey. How was the visit to the palace?"

"Bad…" Leia takes in a long shuddering breath. "Mom, how do you know Sabé Reuthering?"

"Oh, I don't really. I've met her only once or twice. Your father was telling me about her earlier. She's a harmless namedropper. Don't give her a second thought, Leia."

Leia wants to believe Breha, but there is something different in her mother's voice—a strange, unknown quality she has never heard before. There is a distance between them beyond the tangible ten-thousand light years.

And then there is what Sabé hissed into her ear this evening when Bail had been distracted. The words burn now like a fever.

"_You're not who you think you are, young Princess. The Dark Lords have greater claim on you than the liars you call mother and father._"

"Leia…are you there?"

"_Search me out on Naboo, young Princess_. _Your true mother beckons. "_

"I have to go," Leia tells Breha dully.

"Child of mine, what's gotten into you?"

Child of mine? Even this expression of affection stings. Breha's lying. Her mother—this woman—is a liar. An impostor. Leia wants her real mother, the one Sabé spoke of. Her real mother would have kept her away from Coruscant; away from the Emperor; away from Vader.

"I wish you had told me earlier," Leia whispers, cutting the call.

She sleeps in terrible spurts that night, tossing and turning. Artoo checks in on her twice, nudging her pillow, bleeping binary comforts. In the half-conscious lulls between falling in and out of nightmares, Leia imagines Vader skulking threateningly in the shadows. The laundry basket throws a black outline of his great dimensions on the wall. The white noise of the dehumidifier becomes his death rattle. The rustling drapes are his cape. The third time Artoo checks on her, she mistakes his photoreceptor for the glint of Vader's respirator lights and screams.

Normalcy greets her at breakfast. There is Bail, reading the news, frowning as he cuts his fruit into quarters. Morning sunlight rests lightly on his shoulders. Threepio bustles about agitatedly with trays of juice and toast. They could be home on Alderaan; it strikes her as a cruel, trite fabrication. She plays along until she can stand it no longer, setting down her cereal spoon. Leia stares at him until he looks up.

"Yes, Dear?"

She wishes to confirm what she already knows. "I'm adopted."

Bail sets his data pad aside, slumping back in his chair as if shrinking from the force of her accusation. He looks troubled—guilty, Leia thinks.

"Did you think I'd never figure it out?" Leia continues, biting down on her lip.

He clears his throat: a nervous preamble to what he is about to say. "We were going to tell you…eventually, when the time merited it. Your mother and I wanted to do it together, when you were old enough. You shouldn't have found out this way—on your own." Bail reaches over the table to hold her hand, but she jerks it away. "Leia, this doesn't change a thing."

It changes everything—

Before this moment now, birthright had meant very little to Leia Organa. To her there was scant difference between a princess and a commoner—especially in this modern age. But as the full substance of her regal station evaporates, leaving her weightless and insignificant, Leia wishes she had never confronted Bail. She wishes she could have continued on being Princess of Alderaan, not some charity case her parents had endeavoured upon. Leia wonders what uncelebrated surname "Organa" replaced.

"You were supposed to deny it," Leia says, getting up from the table. "Why couldn't have you just denied it?"

* * *

The engines of the shuttle drone lowly as the pilot goes through the pre-flight procedures. Vader sits in the private cabin lounge wearily, watching as Coruscant's sun burns through the dawn smog on the horizon. The cabin fills with the first, rich light of the day, steeping the data files spread before him in golden scarlet.

He has been up all night, sifting through the Imperial database. The search was particularly vexatious as much of the documentation on Trade Federation and the Separatist Army has been purged in the wake of Palpatine's tyranny. For good cause his Master is wary of too much information circulating about the years immediately predating the Republic's fall. It would be disastrous if Palpatine's true role in the Clone Wars was realized. Researching Naboo also offered its share of unpleasantness. Amidala's name cropped up all too frequently in the reports, foreshadowing, he fears, the cruel memories he will soon encounter on her planet.

Her state biography was cited numerous times in the files:

"…ironically the ardent pacifist would witness her planet subject to total war early in her first term…with the unwitting aid of a young (censor), the squadron brought about the destruction of the Neimoidian Droid Control ship…life threatened by old nemesis Nute Gunray, Senator Amidala was placed under the vigilance of the (censor)…both Amidala and (censor) were jailed unjustly by a Geonosis council…bravely assisting (censor) offensive on Cato Neimoidia…her deft marksmanship saved the lives of war heroes (censor) and (censor)…"

Vader is ambivalent about his old self being censored out of the records. On the one hand, rejection of the past has been his practice for the past ten years. But then again, it is admittedly jarring to see all he sacrificed during the Clone War trivialized. Were all the hardships of those three bloody years negligible enough to be erased from public memory?

But what bothers Vader more than Imperial Intelligence's apathy towards Skywalker's wartime heroics is that he had to personally spend the night hunched over a computer terminal. He is a clumsy typist; his hands are more suited to grip the yoke of a star fighter. Research is usually delegated to some near-sighted corporal while Vader perfects his lightsaber thrust and parry. However, Palpatine has stipulated that this assignment is to be kept as covert as reasonably possible, forcing Vader to take on certain menial responsibilities himself. Thus, Vader spent the night like a penned in Rancour.

Not to mention the worst inconvenience inflicted upon him…

The cabin door chimes. The guards usher in a slight, pale man. Sergeant Piett—Vader has just finished reviewing the officer's file. His diminished physique is indicative of the many hours logged in the artificial environment of the star destroyer _Avenger_. Piett's eyes are large and bleary, overtaking his otherwise bland, nondescript face. He is in need of a shave—Headquarters must have only recently roused him from his bed.

Vader does not stand to great him. Piett ought to know it was not Vader's idea that he should be saddled and have his mission complicated by this tag-along.

Piett salutes anxiously. "Sergeant Piett, at your service, Lord Vader."

Vader shifts in his seat irritably. "Indeed. Have you been made aware of the nature of this mission yet, Sergeant?"

"HQ informed me that there have been reports of rouge Jedi hidden on Naboo, Sir."

"That is the rumour," Vader agrees cagily.

The lingering stormtroopers depart at a motion of Vader's hand. Alone, he can see Piett's stiff anxiety in the quick movements of the young officer's eyes, in the clench and unclenching of his fists.

"Sit," Vader commands Piett, pointing to the row of seats opposite his. "Officially,yes—that is the reason for our presence on Naboo. Rouge Jedi. That is the story we shall tell the Queen and any other Nubian official who asks. Understood?"

"Then, there are no Jedi on Naboo?"

"None that we are aware of. Listen carefully: What I am about to tell you, Sergeant, stays within the confines of the shuttle cabin. Your discretion is vital to the success of this mission. No one on Naboo may know this."

"Of course, Sir."

There is a pregnant pause; Piett suppresses a squirm under Vader's scrutiny.

"The Emperor suspects a Neimoidian presence on Naboo. Furthermore, he fears an alliance between these aliens and the Rebels."

Piett frowns softly. "Begging your pardon, Sir, but that is impossible. The Neimoidians have been virtually eradicated."

_Begging your pardon_—Vader detests this sort of passive-aggressive insubordination. It is so very characteristic of all the Imperial officers. 'Ahh, begging your pardon, Sir, as a member of His Majesty's Navy, I am have a superior opinion in all matters—even those I have yet to be briefed on. Please remember, while you may or may not outrank me (Is 'Sith Lord' even a rank, Sir? It's not in the protocol logs) my intellect is vastly greater than yours—I should know: I am an esteemed graduate of the Imperial Academy. Honour roll. Not to condescend, but that Jedi tomfoolery you dabble in is highly irrelevant to this matter. Trust me, Sir. '

Vader grimaces to himself, saying nothing as he passes Piett the hardcopy prints of the Rebel-flagged Neimoidian ship taken by the sentry satellite. Studying the prints, the furrow between Piett's brows deepens.

"Those were taken last week, in orbit over Naboo. Have a close look. Obviously of Neimoidan design. Now, according to your file, Sergeant Piett, you are apparently familiar with Neimoidian technology."

The officer smiles thinly. "I became acquainted with their droid-transports and bulk cruisers as a sniper during the Cato Neimoidia offensive."

Vader knows 'sniper' is a gross elevation of what Piett's job had actually entailed. Piett did not crouch, face-blackened, in tall grass, balancing his blaster masterfully, manually putting an erratic target in his crosshairs. Piett had aimed with a computer, safe aboard an orbiting star destroyer, mapping out the possible movements of the automated Neimoidian vehicles. Unlike the Republic's clones, the actions of the Separatists' droids could be predicted through equations and algorithms by the end of the war. It was half the reason the Separatists lost.

"At the time my CO was the Negotiator," adds Piett to fill the silence.

A brief surge of fury courses through Vader. "Obi Wan Kenobi is currently a fugitive from the Empire. Do not attribute such aggrandizing titles to a war criminal such as him."

The engines, heard mutedly in the cabin, swell to full power. With a lurch, the shuttle comes to hover above the tarmac. Vader feels his sudden anger at the old ache dissipate as they rise high into the dawn sky.

"Another thing I noted in your file: Up until six months ago, you held rank as 'Major' on the star destroyer _Avenge_r. Why the demotion, Sergeant?"

Piett reddens slightly. "Oh, I do not consider it a demotion, Sir. More of a transfer. Each station in the military hierarchy is equally vital to the Empire and as a Sergeant I have the opportunity to work hands-on with my men."

"If only all Chief _Petty_ Officers were as optimistic as you, Sergeant," sneers Vader, with cruel emphasis. "So, you claim that you are contented with your rank—and, yet you resigned your commission on the _Avenger _three months ago and have been living as a civilian on Coruscant since."

"I merely took a leave of absence in order to spend more time with my family," Piett explains.

"I do not tolerate disingenuousness, Sergeant. You are divorced and have no children."

Piett's polite smile shrinks abruptly. "My leave of absence was Captain Ozzel's idea. He and I had something of a professional falling out."

"Capatin Ozzel is an idiot of the highest order," Vader states flippantly. "However, your current status of decommission, in conjunction with your experience with Neimodian technology makes you the best candidate to assist me in this mission. Correction—the best candidate would be nobody, yet here you are. It was not my recommendation that you should join me. I would have preferred to investigate Naboo solely. Therefore, know that my patience towards error will be especially limited, Sergeant."

Piett looks at his hands, limp in his lap. "I understand, Sir—though it is still a great honour to serve under you."

"Undeniably," says Vader—indifferent—handing Piett a small stack of data cards. "Review these here. Consider it your briefing. It shall be long voyage: Naboo is rather remote. I suggest you get comfortable."

Piett nods, sinking back into the cushions of his seat. He closes his eyes wearily, settled in for an in-flight nap.

"Someplace else, Sergeant."

Piett blushes, excusing himself from the cabin awkwardly.

* * *

Eighty kilometres deep into Naboo, the drill bit grinds rhythmically away at the layers of compacted rock. As it corkscrews towards the cold, dead core of the planet, battle droids patrol the mining station immediately above. The droids and their Neimoidian commanders comprise Saul Myire's munitions team. It was their vessel that tripped off the Sentry Satellites' alarm last week.

The ship was ditched in the South—in the Thethys Sea. They are working now in the North—in the Lake Country.

Nubian plasma miners lay dead in the darkness. No one has missed them yet. They were prospectors: nobody will ever miss them.

The Neimoidian Captain pauses at a vibration in his robe's pocket. He draws out a small holo-projector and the shrunken image of Saul Myire appears. The hologram faintly lights the crags of the mining shaft blue.

"Progress, Captain?"

"On schedule, Sir."

"Excellent."

"We should keep this conversation brief, Sir. The Nubian Government has begun monitoring the airwaves again."

"For the time being perhaps. The Empire must have begun putting pressure on Queen Rozwir. Keep an ear on the channels. Their presence will soon be alleviated," purrs Saul Myire assuredly.

"How, Sir?"

"At the moment Queen Rozwir believes she has more to fear from the Empire than us. Vader is personally on his way. However, once our contact in Theed alerts her as to the true nature of our operation, Rozwir will resume cooperation. Rozwir knows she would serve her planet best by allying with the greatest force threatening Naboo."

"It will be another week before we reach the core."

"Then our contact will exaggerate the danger until such time. Either way, Rozwir would be a fool to egg on the denotation of this warhead. Trust me, the communication channels will be clear soon. We shall have her complacency—her planet is hostage."

"What about Darth Vader, Sir? Can we truly conceal these operations from a Sith Lord?"

"Vader will find his investigation thoroughly impeded. Do not fear him. I'll be in touch, Captain."

"Yes, Sir."

The hologram dies. At the termination of the conversation, the shuddering of the drill turbines far below can be heard all the louder. Pebbles skitter at the Neimoidian Captain's feet. He squints at the battle droids clomping deep into the cavern, their marching echoing throughout the shaft. The slams, the crunches, the durasteel goosesteps, the colossal whirring of the drill engine generator: it is an operatic symphony of Neimoidian triumph.

All of Naboo is trembling. She remembers these invaders.

* * *


	3. The Pursed, Painted Lips of Queen Rozwir

**

* * *

Chapter Three **

**The Pursed, Painted Lips of Queen Rozwir**

**

* * *

**

It is with a sardonic smirk that Boba Fett sidles through the Senate antechamber, his sharp eyes scanning the many faces for sign of the Organa father and daughter. His employer has stipulated that he discard his Mandalorian armour for the job, that Fett leave his features unmasked for all the Imperial surveillance to see. He pauses before a camera above the exit to the North Wing and mugs, squinting at the red "record" light. He has been given license to be cocky.

Everyone present recognizes him, but the familiarity is perfectly fine with Fett.

His face belongs to millions. In this mere hall, containing perhaps five hundred humans and bipedals—an infinitesimal fraction of the galaxy's population—there are no less the seven beings that share his exact genetic make up. They are clones—all in varying stages of age and decay—and it lends him a camouflage no Mandalorian T-visor could provide. The galaxy has learned to turn away from these features: the broad, flat nose; the black, arched brows; the rough, olive complexion. This is the face of war and it renders him invisible.

A swarthy, elegantly-dressed man dances into Fett's peripheral vision. The bounty hunter stiffens: Organa and his senatorial entourage. But the Princess is not apparent.

He mutters into his comm. "Negative visual on the target."

"She's there—at your eight o'clock," returns his accomplice. The voice is that of a woman's. Their eyes meet accidentally across the hall.

"Copy," he says slowly, casually turning his back to his accomplice.

Seemingly consulting his chronometer, his eyes dart up slyly in the direction he was told to look. His accomplice spoke the truth. Leia Organa—a small girl of nine—hangs back a fair distance from her father, in the company of a brass protocol droid and a smaller astromech. Fett can only identify two bodyguards flanking Alderaan's Senator. He frowns.

"I don't like it. This operation is going down hitch-less. They're on to us."

"Cut the chatter and count your blessings. Move in as we planned. I'm leaving for the rendezvous point now. "

"Copy," he says again, the affirmative much terser.

Fett tucks the comm away and squares his shoulders, watching the lights above the nearby turbolift doors count downwards. Once those filing out of the lift swell the throng, Fett can easily make the grab. Mornings in the Senate are especially crowded. Even the bodyguards will be distracted by the jostle, and before the surge of bodies recedes Fett will be long gone with her.

At the chime of the lift doors opening Fett moves in.

The disjointed cacophony of conversation increases with the influx of persons. Fett shoves his way forward, losing sight of the Princess for one crucial moment. Reaching for her blindly, Fett finds himself clutching air. He whirls about as the crowd thins. There's Bail up ahead, oblivious, followed by the aides, the bodyguards, and the tottering, brass protocol droid. Fett looks about wildly. The chattering crowd does not notice his disquiet. How could a child have vanished in seconds?

Fett thinks frantically back over the freshly past moments, recalling the astromech wheeling along at the Princess's side. It had been an R2 unit, with blue markings. He surveys the antechamber, spotting three droids that match his vague recollection. Swiftly, he moves towards the first and second units, in short time eliminating them as leads. Despair threatens evolution to panic as Fett discovers the third belonging to the Senator of Xjan.

But then he sees a fourth, rolling out of sight, down the hall of red carpet and tall pillars that stretches magnificently to the Senate flight stations. He charges after the droid, breaking into a sprint at the sight of the young Princess. A rucksack slung over her shoulder, she races pell-mell towards the idling star ships.

Strangely, Fett gets the impression that it is not _he_ the child is running from.

The blue R2 unit stops and swivels, training its photoreceptor on the bounty hunter. Heatedly, it issues a long stream of incensed blips and beeps. It intends to impede Fett's way.

Fett raises and cocks his blaster with a sneer. "Bad move, Shorty."

Yet before Fett can pull the trigger, noxious vapours hiss serpentine-like out of the R2's vents. In a second Fett is enveloped in the cloud. Eyes burning, throat constricting, the bounty hunter hollers, bowing to his knees. The blaster is dropped with a clatter lost under his hacks and retches. Through the dimness of his vision and the thickness of the smokescreen, Fett sees the stocky outline of the droid roll away, contended. Victorious.

* * *

It is a grey morning in Theed. Rainy mists have risen from the city river and now drift along its quiet meanders, pervading the cobblestone alleyways and central squares with a wet, wispy chill. Water beads on every surface, drips down along branches; stone women shed tears. All things swathed in pearly gauze, it is as if this world has been overlaid with the transparent traces of the next: the afterlife where silver-lined souls float freely down Memorial Boulevard and wreathe about Vader's form for sheer torment. 

"It used to be called Shalla'grilum Way, but it was renamed ten years ago," Major Typho tells Vader and Piett pointlessly, glancing at his two passengers in the rear-view-mirror.

They have forgone traveling in a convoy to the palace, ignoring protocol for favour of secrecy. As ordered, Major Typho, head of the palace security, met his classified passengers in a secluded hanger-bay of Theed Spaceport. Not briefed in the situation, Typho's eyebrows had shot upwards under his cap's visor at the sight of Lord Vader sweeping down the shuttle ramp, meek and cowering Piett at his heels. Typho is a black man whose kinky, clipped hair has become hoary in the ten years since Amidala died and Typho found himself out of a bodyguarding job.

Their current transport is nothing more than a boxy, black utility speeder, the rear windows tinted indigo to the extreme of opaqueness. It coasts smoothly down the main thoroughfare of the Nubian Capital, taking the most direct route to the palace.

"What's the boulevard in memorial of, Major?" Piett asks.

Vader glares at Piett. What infuriates him more than small talk are those who encourage it.

"The Federation Invasion and our victory over them. Shoot. To think, that was twenty-odd years ago!"

"Time flies," Piett supplies inanely.

Vader says nothing to voice his chagrin. He is oddly mellowed by the familiar skyline of tarnished copper rotundas and stark, elegant spires. He lets the novelty of casual conversation wash over him.

"No kidding. Take for instance Queen Apailana's assassination. That's two-year-old news and I remember it like it happened last week."

Piett rubs his chin thoughtfully. "That story really wasn't covered galacticaly. What happened again?"

"She was giving some Jedi refuge. 501st Legion rubbed her out." Typho glances at Vader. "Justly of course. Apailana was a fool to think she could shelter war criminals and not face repercussions."

"I'm so glad the Empire has your approval, Major Typho," says Vader dryly, emerging from his stony silence. "Now, the present monarch, Queen Rozwir—she succeeded Apailana directly after her death, no?"

"That is correct, My Lord."

Piett leans forward, sensing Vader's wish to turn the conversation professional, and eager to assist. "And how does Queen Rozwir rank as a leader?"

Typho gives a strange, little laugh. "There are two schools of thought when it comes to Rozwir. Cynics claim she got the throne coasting on her looks and family name. I, however, belong to the second group of folk that believes she's the brightest, bravest young woman Naboo has to offer and it's just a coincidence she happen to be Amidala's niece."

"Yes, a coincidence," says Piett bemusedly, prematurely slotting himself with the group that believes the former. He looks earnestly to Vader. "Did you know that, Sir?"

Vader cringes. Yes, of course he does. He read it in the database files. Rozwir is the eldest daughter of his sister-in-law (technically, he supposes) Sola. Ryoo, as she was then known, had struck him as a seven-year-old going on thirty-seven. How her lips had pursed with the belittling scorn of a schoolteacher's at Anakin trusted ice-breaker: making the dinner fruit revolve about the table's centrepiece.

At present, it is across the marble-topped desk of Her Royal Majesty's throne room, not the Nanberrie kitchen table, that a fully-grown, adult-sized Queen Rozwir glares at him. Like Amidala before her, her sharp features are suited to the alabaster make-up of a Nubian Queen, though this is where the family similarities end. He can not imagine Rozwir's black, beady eyes soften as Padmé's did, nor her mouth being anything but a hard, pressed line.

Rozwir acknowledges his entrance not with a rise and bow, but with a slight, imperious inclination of her head. She sparkles even in the grey, dull light of this damp morning. Her hair is hidden within an elaborate, gilded headpiece. Hooked into her earlobes are startlingly long earrings that fall in a thick splay of gold. From her sleeves drapes enough fabric to sew another lady a peasant skirt. The effect would be mesmerizing if he had not seen it before on a more beautiful monarch.

Vader stands in the middle of the great, echoing marble chamber. Rozwir's small court has assembled behind him. Piett hangs back with them, in the shadow of support pillars, making eyes at a stony, unreceptive handmaiden.

Typho bows towards Rozwir and introduces Vader formally. "Your Majesty, may I present Lord Darth Vader of the Sith, here as an envoy of the Emperor."

Rozwir is moved to speak. Her voice is deep, detached. "You have graced us with your presence most unexpectedly. I first learned of your impending arrival no more than an hour ago, Lord Vader."

"The nature of my business here demanded the precaution of that discourtesy. I felt it would be preferable if as few persons as possible were aware of my being here."

"And what _is_ your business here?" she asks grimly. Vader notes the white talons that are her fingernails dig into the armrest of her throne. "I hope not for the same reason the last time the Empire made it military force felt here. Unlike my predecessor, I was hoping to reach middle age."

Beneath the decoration of her costume, and the blankness of her expression, Vader can tell he terrifies her. Eyes lie, for he sees the stillness of her form, but through the Force senses the tumult of her fears; and he knows all is not well on Naboo.

"Rogue Jedi, of course," Vader lies.

Rozwir's eyes flash darkly. She knows he is toying with her.

He paces forward, his heels clicking on the polished floor, coming to stand directly before her desk.

"Why don't you tell me why I am really here, Your Majesty," Vader says quietly. Likely, only the Queen can hear his words.

Here is the first glimpse of a scared young woman beneath the regal demeanour: her eyes break connection with his.

"I would assume for the same reason the Emperor called my Ambassador before him—the alleged Rebel traffic over Naboo."

"That is indeed partially the reason," Vader agrees, drawing himself to his full height. In less than a whisper, he continues, "But we shall discuss this privately, without the presence of your court."

"I do not think that is a very good idea," she tells him shortly.

"I do," he says, turning around to face Rozwir's court—the handmaidens, the local governors, the palace guards—residing morosely in the shadows of the pillars. There is no eagerness to please in this semi-circle gathering of Nubians. With apprehension and muted defiance they regard him, convinced Vader is here to kill Rozwir, just as his 501st legion killed Apailana two years ago. Officially, Naboo proudly bows before Vader's Emperor, but unofficially their Queen shall have their undying loyalty and Vader would be a fool to bully her further.

He needs Rozwir's trust if he is to ever accomplish anything here. To push her by the brute threat of star destroyer in orbit over Naboo would alienate her staff and send the slithering remnants of the Federation shrinking back into impossible obscurity. If Vader is to ever uncover this Neimoidian-Rebel axis, he must let them get comfortable—careless—on Naboo.

Addressing the court, Vader says loudly, "During our stay, myself and Major Piett (The officer stiffens abruptly, the sound of his name jarring him out of a trance) will need—and therefore _have_—access to all security footage taken in the past months. I will have unprejudiced access to any sort of intelligence I desire. I will have any required resource at my disposal. And, most importantly, I will have all your fullest cooperation. Isn't that right, your Majesty?"

Rozwir's inky eyes blink in rapid succession. "You shall _have _my permission before any of these things, Lord Vader. I am not certain I can condone a hijacking of my authority. This investigation of yours will be carried out only through my consultation and consent."

Before he can anger, Vader has to wonder why she is fighting him. She must know her audacity will bring the wrath of the Empire down upon her. Like ten thousand other star system, sheer, absolute terror has kept Naboo in line effortlessly these past ten years. The only explanation is that now Queen Rozwir has something greater to fear than even the Empire.

And then Vader understands. "They're watching you, aren't they?"

Rozwir's mouth parts, but she can say nothing.

* * *

At the buzz of her comm, Sabé smiles sheepishly at the person seated next to her. 

"Excuse me. I have to take this."

She rises and weaves out from the row of seats into the centre aisle. Sabé ignores the persistent song emanating from her comm until she slips into the small, closet refresher nestled in the alcove between the passenger cabin and the starship's cockpit. Flicking on the oily, yellow lights, she makes a point to turn up the fan and run the faucet water. She does not trust the thickness of this refresher's walls. This conversation is to be private.

Thumbing the comm's pad, she brings the device to her ear.

"Talk to me."

She hears wheezing on the other end of the line. Her reflection in the mirror frowns.

"I lost her," coughs Fett. Sabé recognizes the bounty hunter's gravely voice.

"Hold on," Sabé murmurs, not bothering to feign surprise. "Where are you calling from?"

"Somewhere secure. Don't worry."

Sabé raises a brow petulantly. "I _am_ worried. If you are not competent enough to grab a mere girl of nine, what's to say you haven't foolishly compromised my obscurity with this call."

"It wasn't my fault. Her R2-unit got in the way. It issued a toxic smokescreen."

"Apparently not toxic enough. You lived and you let her escape. More pressingly, you've raised my ire." Agitatedly, she smoothes her loose hair out of her eyes, fingering a few new strands of silver. Her thirties have not been kind to her.

"Give me a day or so to track her down. Like you said, she's only a kid. I'll get a hold of her. I swear."

"No," Sabé says abruptly. "We're through. Consider the matter closed."

"You need her," growls Fett. "And you need me. I can get her for you."

"That won't be necessary. I've already made alternative arrangements."

"But--"

Smoothly, she continues. "You've failed us, Fett. That's the bottom line. Don't try this number again." Sabé cuts the call and cracks the flimsy comm against the sink basin, discarding the remnants into the waste chute. She turns down the fan and turns off the tap, lingering a few extra seconds to criticize her reflection. Arranging her features rigidly into her previous smile, she steps out of the fresher and nods pleasantly at the passing stewardess.

"ETA?" Sabé asks.

"We'll reach Naboo in another hour or so, Ma'am."

"Excellent. Thank you."

Sabé returns to her seat beaming and, settling in to her former position, she looks at the young girl next to her and winks. "Now, where were we, Princess?"

Leia Organa returns the smile shyly. "You were asking me why I ran away."

* * *

Oh twist! Please drop me a review. 


	4. The Trembling Planet

**CHAPTER FOUR: The Trembling Planet**

* * *

It is midnight in this borough of the Imperial City; the drawing room of the Alderaani Consulate stands in still darkness, save for the periodic flash of headlights and fading zoom and whine of a near-flying speeder. The dim ambient light of the metropolis catches on the rim of Bail's untouched crystal tumbler. Practically motionless, he has remained for hours. So great is his anguish that he does not stir at the stiff, mechanical sounds of Threepio's approach.

The droid chooses not to round the sofa, halting to address his master from behind. Bail braces for bad news. "I have come to report...well, Master, just that there is nothing to report. Senate security is combing through the surveillance feeds for a fourth time. I am sorry, Master."

Bail waves Threepio off. The room warms briefly with the light of the outside hall, then cools with the droid's exit.

When he broke the news to his wife over telecomm, Breha told him that she loved him still and would love him always, but that she blamed him: in part, for the suggesting the trip to the Imperial City that had brought their daughter to the danger; but centrally, for the trauma of the adoption revelation . Breha had been a staunch proponent of the honest and open approach. She had wanted to tell Leia the truth long ago; whereas, Bail had hoped to shield Leia from ever finding out. For if she did find out, he had reasoned, what of the ensuing onslaught of questions? They could never reveal her true parentage. If they had to lie at all, they may as well claim her as absolutely as their own.

Breha had acquiesced to her husband's wishes begrudgingly, retaining her misgivings. The Princess had inherited that Jedi sense : she caught the lies told to spare her feelings or to coax her cooperation. She knew which hand held then hidden toy; which number a person was thinking of between one and one hundred. Even beyond the unworldly intuition, the slight, snow-white Princess would one day catch the stark contrast between herself and her tall, broad, dark-featured parents.

They had not even discovered whether Leia had run away or had been kidnapped; though, it was clear she had strayed willingly.

Breha, the eyes of her hologram image glancing sidelong, asked, "You said you passed Vader at the Imperial Palace. Did he...?"

"Notice Leia?" Bail finished the terrible thought, the brief and uncertain memory of Vader's mask turning onto his daughter coming to his mind's eye. "He looked, but...Breha, if Vader discovered that we have been raising his daughter as our own for nine years, he would not steal her away covertly. Come now. Vader would break down this consulate's doors, demand an explanation, destroy my worldly possessions, slit my throat-most likely before Leia's very eyes. He is a brutal man of rash actions; he does not creep about, luring little girls away from their families."

"He looked," she repeated lowly. It was all that she had heard.

"Sabe Ruthering was there with us, making a fuss. She must have drawn his attention. She resembles the late Amidala so."

"Leia called me the night before. Mentioned her."

"Sabe made an impression on the both, then," Bail said shortly, then sighed. "Breha, it was not Vader. Or the Emperor for that matter. If this were about Leia's biological parentage-or about the Alliance-we would know by now. We should be thankful for this."

Breaha's translucent blue face crumpled. The burst of emotion seemed synchronized with a burst of static, for the hologram jumped and quivered erratically. "Where is she, Bail?" came the distorted, pleading moan. "Where is she?"

Bail stands, as if to shake the memory of the earlier conversation off of him. He paces. An hour passes; then another passes. The comm chimes: his greatest ally, Mon Mothma, has arrived.

He meets her in the downstairs foyer. She streams towards him in a trail of heavy, ivory silk and grip his hands in hers. Mon gives him the searching, compassionate look she reserves for grievers. He had seen her present this face often during the Clone Wars to strangers-to constituents. As he regards her, it occurs to him how difficult it is for two politicians to be friends truly, as only politicians understand just how effortlessly looks and words of comfort can be conjured at will from nothing.

Now two tumblers of Corellian brandy sit untouched on the coffee table of the drawing room. Mon Mothma is one of the few who know that Padme Amidala bore Leia and that the wartime hero, Commander Skywalker, had provided the seed. If Mon knows that Commander Skywalker and Darth Vader are the same man, it is not through Bail. At any rate, it is an unpleasant fact left unsaid during their meeting.

Mon rubs her temple and leans closer to Bail. "So, you do not want the Imperial Navy's help in any significant way, in case it comes to light that-"

"The opposite," he interrupts quietly. "I've already been pleading for their assistance, but they are not keen to assist a senator who Palpatine views as meddlesome, if not outright subversive. The Alderaani intelligence team has already mobilized, but they are a team of eight and the Senate security officers are not being particularly helpful."

Mon Mothma frowns slightly. "Surely you do not wish to involve Alliance forces? To risk exposure like that?"

Bail looks away. "Surely we could spare a few men..."

Her eyes burn admonishingly. "Admiral Akbar would never agree to this. I would never agree to this! Bail, when we committed ourselves to this cause, we committed ourselves absolutely. Personal matters-not matter how urgent-cannot jeopardize the Alliance's concealment . I am sorry."

"Then what would you have me do, Mon?"

The desperation in his face is too great to look at. She retrieves her tumbler of brandy from the table and takes a shallow sip. Wincing, she speaks again, in slow, careful measures: "There is another body you could turn to. They have the technology and the man power to lead such a sprawling galactic search. And they have an incredible stake in earning your trust, as a leader of the Rebel Alliance. I speak of the Trade Federation."

"What in the spinning galaxy are you-"

She hushes him. "They still exist. There is an armada of Nemoidian ships floating deep in space, out of Palpatine's sight. The Federation is led by an individual known as Saul Myrie. He is a close relative of Nute Gunray-

"Aren't they all born by the same queen," snarls Bail, the wartime xenophobia curling his lips.

Mon Mothma pretends to not have heard. "They seek revenge against the Empire. I see your face, Bail. Try not to think of them as the old enemy. The Nemoidians were but pawns used by the very same enemy we face now. Saul Myrie has made contact with the Alliance. I believe he is... not being _disingenuou_s with us. He could offer us a great technological leverage against the Imperials."

"Ackbar would never stand for this, after the Battle of-"

"Which is why they would be eager to win your trust by helping you locate your runaway daughter. Two out of three of us would need to agree for this new coalition to come to fruition. This is a happy coincidence, Bail. There is a powerful alien out there who wishes to win your favour and you happen to be a man in very great need."

It is two hours from dawn now. Bail stares blearily out the grand windows of the drawing room at the nightscape. "The happiest of coincidences."

* * *

The Theed Infirmary is one of the more modern buildings standing in the city proper. It was built during lean times and consequently conveys an utilitarian starkness which breaks jarringly from the ornateness that characterizes Nubian architecture. Vader received a message from Rozwir's office that he ought to begin his investigation here. It is the only information they have passed onto him since his audience with the queen earlier today.

A medic of some sort is waiting for him when he arrives. The nervous elderly man urges him to follow him downstairs to the morgue. Vader leaves Piett aimlessly whistling in the low-ceilinged foyer and joins the medic on the descending lift. Vader sees the medic shiver as they step onto the bottom floor; it must be kept colder down here, he thinks. The medic silently leads him to a chamber off the main hall. The walls of this small, hexagonal room are lined with durasteel drawers painted a dull green. The paint is chipped in many places. At a consol placed in the center on the room upon a plain pedestal the medic keys in a code. The consol chirps an affirmative tone.

One of the drawers set into the far wall slides slowly open. It reveals a preserved body lying upon a pallet. Vader approaches. It is a woman whose closed face is wreathed by a splay of thick dark hair. She is naked beneath a thin, grey sheet. He notices the medic slip out the door, giving Vader privacy with the dead body that is only pretending to be a dead body.

"Your Highness, you insult me."

The slightest of motions cracks the death mask at the corner of her mouth. The rouse dissolves and Queen Rozwir's deep eyes open slyly.

"It was a ploy to fool my people and their people, My Lord. Not you. No one must know that I have left the Palace."

"You Nubians have always put too much stock in white face paint and silly little deceptions."

"Perhaps. For modesty's sake, would you please regard the opposite wall for a moment."

He complies, hearing her shift into an upright sitting position. She wishes to protect her naked backside from his view as she rearranges the blanket into a large shawl. When the rustling ceases he turns back to her. He senses she is embarrassed to have him see her so exposed. This is a woman more comfortable in the skin of her public persona; she would sleep in the makeup and the waterfall of beads given the choice.

"I apologize for the-ah-_informality_ of this meeting." Rozwir slips down off the high pallet. "It could not be helped. Believe me, I would rather conduct this from the throne room, not in this macabre..." she trails off as she reaches to the consol pedestal. She closes the drawer she sprang from; opens five more to reveal corpses that are genuinely corpses. "These are members of a mining scout team. Mining has not been a significant industry on this planet since the _Jewelers Act_ came into force twelve hundred years ago. We have a policy interest in maintaining the integrity of our planet's crust, having no tectonic cycle to refortify it. Are you familiar with the Lake Country region, My Lord?"

Vader says nothing, the flare of a lakeside sunset erupting in his memory.

"No? It's only four hundred kilometers to the northwest. It's an lush enclave where old money vacations. Lots of hulking country houses built on the shores of private lakes. I have had the good fortune of inheriting my sister's manor, though I am embarrassed to admit that I've spent very little time there... But the noteworthy thing about the Lake Country is that the lakes are all manmade-in the sense that the lakebeds are depressions in the topography where the bedrock has collapsed from the mining tunnels beneath.

"Now, these men here... The _Jeweler's Act_ permits a small quota of _kionyz_ to be mined each year, but not on any industrial scale. It's primarily an exemption for local artisans and the like. Presumably that is what these unfortunate souls were doing, when they were gunned down.

"Is kionyz valuable?" Vader ventures as he examines the blaster wounds on one miner's torso.

"Yes. Yet, whoever slaughtered these men did not bother to take their spoils. Nor the money and equipment they had on their persons. The Constabulary's background investigation found no enemies, no outstanding debt, no feuds. Perhaps this is the work of an aimless madman. But I do not feel that is so. The Constabulary has been tracking reports of odd noises, odd lights from that area of the planet. "

"And odd ships too, perhaps?"

Rozwir smiles thinly. "Many, many odd ships. Which is why the Emperor has sent you, is it not?"

"You are correct."

"He suspects rebel activity. That is the only reason he shows interest. I alerted the Empire months ago about the other occurrences. Lord Vader, there is something gravely amiss in my world and I am very grateful you are here. I would ask you begin your investigation in the Lake Country. I can offer you and your partner ("Assistant", Vader interjects) my countryhouse as a base. There are no answers here in Theed. We just feel the aftershocks."

"There is no need for histrionics, Your Highness. Five miners have died and there are reports of an elevated rate of unmarked ships landing. I suspect a rebel contingent hiding out in the area, perhaps in an ancient mine shaft. In truth, I am more interested in finding out if the Naboo have been complicit in their presence here."

Rozwir regards him coolly; she retains a strangely regal air. The overhead lightening hollows her features; darkens her eyes. The deep folds of the sheet recall marble drapery cascading down the form of a goddess statue. "I meant literal aftershocks, Lord Vader. There has been a series of earthquakes this year-on a tectonically dormant planet. There is indeed something gravely amiss in my world Lord Vader. Something greater than a Rebel presence. "

* * *

"Naboo," Sabe is telling Leia, "is my home planet and it is one of the most lovely in the galaxy. Its forests and lakes are pristine. Its cities are magnificent. I hate leaving it for a world as wretched as the Imperial City, which may as well be a space station. It's more wires and durasteel girders than earth at this point."

"I hated leaving Alderaan too," Leia offers. Twisting her hands in her laps, she summons the courage to ask the question she has been dying to ask. They have been talking for hours now and Sabe has continually evaded the topic of her mother.

"So, my mother from Naboo?"

Sabe gives her a thoughtful look and a gentle "Yes."

Leia feels a thrill in her stomach. Sabe reaches over and pulls the girl against her bosom. Leia smiles into the warm fabric of Sabe's dress as the woman strokes her hair. "You miss your mother, don't you?"

She thinks of Breha; thinks back to all the times the Queen of Alderaan rocked Leia on her lap, stroked her hair as Sabe did now, whispering nursery rhymes. "My little girl..." She grits her teeth. Lies! All lies!

"I didn't know her to miss her, but I...I do, I think," Leia answers. "How did I come to King and Queen of Alderaan?"

"It is a sad story. And a long story. We have nearly arrived."

"What happened to my mother then? Who was she?"

Sabe sighs. "Darling, it's so hard to tell part of the story without telling all of the story. But, I will say that when the War ended, there was much confusion on Naboo. Your mother was killed by agents of the Emperor. She was of royal stock herself. It seemed natural to give you to one of the galaxy's old noble families. I fought against it. I thought it would be best if you remained with us on Naboo. Naboo is your home."

The spaceship begins to tremble slightly as it had reached the outer limits of the Nubian atmosphere. Leia breaks away from Sabe and sits up straight in her seat, instinctively preparing for landing.

"Was she a queen?"

"Your mother was the greatest queen Naboo ever saw. Her name was Amidala. She saved us from destruction when she was scarcely older than you, Leia. She stood strong against the invading army of the Trade Federation."

The ship rocks harder now as it plunged towards the planet surface . The stars have vanished outside her window, as the ship breaks through layers of dark cloud banks. They hurtle down through the nighttime sky. Leia sits silent letting the information sink in.

The girl's mind is racing as the ship's landing gear met the surface of her native world. My mother was a queen, her name was Amidala. My mother was a queen and I am still a princess.


End file.
